Re-Start
by mysongsknowwhatudidinthelight
Summary: John's life After Sherlock was a simple straight line- no bends, turns, or loops. But that suddenly changed back to the waves of With Sherlock with a return of a certain Consulting Detective. M for swearing, plot, references. JOHNLOCK. BLANKET DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN SHERLOCK HOLMES OR ANY OTHER INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY MENTIONED.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello everyone! Welcome to my new story. I hope that this spins off into something bigger than I have planned at the moment, but I'm sure it's going to work fine.  
Something you should know about me: I don't write fast. The updates will take a while, so if you're looking for one that gets updated every week, move on.  
Writing Tumblr: letshearitfor . tumblr . com.  
DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN SHERLOCK, THE BBC SERIES.**

* * *

John Watson, M.D.

It sounds like a name on a British television drama, but the drama wasn't televised. It was covered by the news, oh yes, but this was not some fiction story created for a daytime soap opera. This, however much the doctor wished against it, was real.

His best friend. The man he'd loved for over a year. The only one that was able to make him _feel _after the Army. Was dead.

John saw him jump. He watched Sherlock Holmes, the man who fought until the last second against evil, fall to his death. Even worse, Sherlock had admitted -through tears, John could hear- that what James Moriarty had told the media was true. That he was a fake.

John supposed it was... More mentally relaxing without a psychotic Sherlock spraypainting and shooting their living room wall. More mentally stable. John allowed the days to blur into each other, following a strict rotation: He'd wake up. He'd get ready for work. He'd go to work. He'd come home at night. He'd eat dinner and sleep. His eyes soon lost their brightness, flattening into a dull, muted shade of blue-gray. His face lost its smile, and he became glad that he applied for surgery at St. Bart's. He wasn't worrying any adults or scaring any kids with his blank face, because it was always covered by a surgical mask. Life should have been good. He had a great flat, a nice landlady, and a well-providing job.

John Watson's life was far from good, though. He had no real friends. He hadn't seen Molly or Lestrade in months, despite the fact that the former worked in the same building. God, he was so desperate to see someone from the precious time he spent with Sherlock that he'd take a glance at Anderson! His life had lost all its emotion, its color... His life has lost its life. There was no reason to it anymore, except the one awful, disappointing, angering feeling that kept prodding from the back of John's mind.

Hope.

Hope that Mycroft would call him, that there'd be a letter among the bills in the mail. Hope for Lestrade coming round the flat at odd hours, hope that he wouldn't lose another blog follower. But most of all, he hoped for a sign from Sherlock. A homeless man winking at him like they shared a secret, a scarf hanging from the coatrack, a fresh bullet hole. He hoped, though he wished he didn't, that one night he'd come home from work and Sherlock would be at the window, playing Tchaikovsky, or sitting in his chair, waiting.

That hope had particularly shown itself one boring day, nine months and twenty-seven days after Sherlock died. He had been filing paperwork, when all of a sudden a 'what if' whispered itself into his mind. The what if grew into a 'wouldn't it be great,' which became a 'maybe it'll happen.' Watson shook his head and buried himself further into his work, trying to drown out the almost palpable taste of hope. The day passed slowly, as the hopes slowly faded into patient information. John nodded to the secretary as he always did when he left, and hailed a cab. The ride home was quiet, and with nothing to distract John, the hope had another flare. He discreetly banged his head against the window, shutting his eyes. As a man who graduated medical school, he knew this had a minimal effect on changing the subject of his thoughts, but he did it anyway. The rest of the ride was almost unbearable.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes walked through the door of 221B Baker Street for the first time in ten months. It was, unsurprisingly, blank. There were several boxes stacked up against the wall he had decimated so long ago, labeled "Sherlock's", but other than that there was no mess. No magazines (though Sherlock knew John had subscriptions to two the last time he had been here), the bookshelf was almost empty (Sherlock knew the books were all his, and therefore in the boxes), and the kitchen table was empty- even of any spare dishes. If it wasn't for the fact that dust wasn't covering the furniture and John's laptop was on the table near the windows, Sherlock could have easily believed no one lived here anymore. He sat down in his favorite chair, and crossed one leg over the other, staring at the door and waiting for it to open.

One hour, thirteen minutes, and fourteen seconds later, Sherlock saw the doorknob turn. The door opened, and Sherlock flinched inwardly. John looked awful. His skin was sallow, his clothes were loose, and, worst of all, his mesmerizing eyes had lost their liveliness. The lifeless eyes bugged out at the sight of Sherlock, and he habitually analyzed John's reaction.

-Widened eyes. John was shocked, and hardly believed what he saw.  
-Lips tightened, swallowed. He was nervous and concerned for his mental health.  
-Hand tightened grip on briefcase. He was angry, and hopeful.

John cleared his throat and closed the door. Without taking his eyes off of Sherlock or opening his mouth, the sandy-haired man put down his briefcase and took off his coat. Sherlock, surprising himself, offered a small nervous smile. It was not returned, and after several seconds, John looked away and went into the kitchen. Wordlessly, Sherlock followed, standing next to the table as John took a microwave dinner out of the freezer and into the microwave. He set out a fork, knife, and cup, filling the latter with water from the pitcher. The microwave beeped, and John took it out, sat down, and started eating. Sherlock sat next to John, curious at the unusual behavior.

"John," the detective said softly. There was no response.

"_John," _he said louder. John speared a piece of broccoli.

"JOHN WATSON. LOOK AT ME." Nothing happened, and angered at the treatment he was receiving, he tried grabbing the doctor's water glass. Without looking up from his plate, John grabbed Sherlock's wrist as he was still reaching for it, and twisted it around. It was only when Sherlock let out an 'agh' of pain that John removed his hand (quickly due to him feeling guilty for hurting Sherlock, the detective observed) and Sherlock put it in his lap, massaging it with his thumb and forefinger of the other hand. He glared lazers at John, and though he knew John was getting affected by it, he didn't show any physical signs.

Dinner finished, and Sherlock waited as John brewed a cup of Earl Grey before following the shorter man (whose posture was bent, as if his cup weighed seventy pounds) into the living room. He sat down in his chair, while John took the couch. The doctor took a sip from the steaming mug, then put it down. For the first time since his entrance into the apartment, John looked right into Sherlock's eyes, opening his mouth to say a single syllable.

"So."

Sherlock's heart crumpled as he heard the emotion in the simple two-lettered word- the anger, pain, regret, the broken heart and crushed soul. He swallowed, unusually nervous.

"So."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I will try to update this weekly but it probably won't really happen- especially considering midterms are next week.**

**Writing tumblr: letshearitfor . tumblr . com**

**John Bull is a name for England, used mostly during the era of the French Rev. in political cartoons.**

* * *

"How'd you do it?"

The question shocked Sherlock- surely John had figured it out by now! But by the mildly placed inquisitiveness in John's dull eyes and peeved purse in his lips, the doctor had no idea. Sherlock cleared his throat.

"I knew exactly what Moriarty was going to do. I guessed I'd have to jump, so I went to Molly-" John's eyebrows jumped up in surprise and Sherlock couldn't help but agree, "-and she helped me. I got an injection that made my pulse unnoticeable- especially not to hurried citizens." Sherlock took a sip of John's tea before continuing.

"My poor, brave trench coat sacrificed itself for a replacement made of military-grade shock absorbent foam, covered in the same material as my trench coat. The replacement was also lined with bags of donated blood, which was not at all pleasant."

Sherlock, for once, couldn't tell exactly what John's thoughts were, and that worried him. It could mean one of two things: Either that John had gotten better at hiding his feelings (likely, John was obviously not faring well but Mrs. Hudson would have been here with John if she knew), or that he really wasn't thinking as much (equally likely, Sherlock knew that mundane surgeries wouldn't take up much, if any, of John's brainpower). Noticing the man in question and his raised eyebrow at the prolonged silence, Sherlock began again.

"Molly obviously did the autopsy, lying and saying that I had died. In reality, she helped me sneak out of the hospital with my trench coat, of course, and enough supplies and money from my bank account for wherever I went next. That explains the closed-casket wake," Sherlock confirmed of his friend's realization, obvious in John's expression.

"Where did you go?" John asked, his tone clipped due to an overwhelming -for John- amount of rage, Sherlock noted absently.

"Here, there," he replied nonchalantly. "France, Spain. Russia for a bit. I got back to good old John Bull about two months ago to find an _awful_ outbreak of Moriarty's men. I'd have returned to you then, but I had to first dispel of the men who were keeping you under constant surveillance." John opened his mouth to ask who, but Sherlock answered before he could utter a single sound. "The last paperboy, the tenant of 222, the new waiter at the cafe next door, the man who collects the rubbish. All of whom I've disposed of and replaced with people from my Homeless Network to watch you and make sure you're out of harm's way."

Sherlock could tell by John's blatant look of astonishment that he had never even suspected them. Frankly, Sherlock was disappointed in him. He'd have thought that John would have become even more suspicious of the world after the fall. He shook his head and clicked his tongue, disappointment clear in his expression.

* * *

John leaned forward, rage burning in his glaring eyes.

"I'm sorry, have I _disappointed_ you? Not sure if you've noticed, but I have become absolutely _empty_ since you died. I've just gotten off the hospital's 'clinically depressed' list, but I'm still on antidepressants and seeing a therapist once a week. _You died in front of me, Sherlock!" _he yelled, more vehemently than anything he's felt in nine months and twenty-seven days. "I saw you _die._ Right after you told me you were a fraud. _And you're tsking me because I didn't notice that I was under surveillance?" _

John sat back, pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes shut, trying to push back the tears threatening to spill over. He continued, his voice tight, "I didn't ignore you for the last half hour because I thought it would be funny, Sherlock. I thought you would have figured it out by now."

"To make sure I didn't disappear and wasn't a figment of your imagination?" the detective asked, for once sounding almost timid.

"No, you idiot." John relished momentarily in being able to call Sherlock that before continuing. "I ignored you because that was exactly what all of the last nine months and twenty-seven days have been like. They've been boring. Mindless. Lonely. _Painful._" John looked up at Sherlock, as usual being unable to read his emotions- if there were any. John took a last sip of tea, then stood up.

"Well, I'm off to bed," he muttered. "You know where your room is." He turned to return his mug to the kitchen, but stopped with shock when he felt Sherlock's hand pressing gently on his shoulder. John turned to face Sherlock, looking up with what he hoped was a nondescript expression.

"John," Sherlock muttered. "I am so sorry." Sherlock wrapped his arms around the smaller man's torso, and John finally broke. Hugging back, John sobbed into Sherlock's chest. The two friends stood in the embrace for an immeasurable amount of time, until John had choked out the last of his tears. As he got ready for bed that night, John had a startling thought: What if Sherlock had missed him, too?

* * *

Sherlock woke, unusually warm, comfortable, and with the smell of... Was it?... Bacon sizzling in a pan. Before he even opened his eyes, he realized where he was: Back in 221B with John. Smiling contentedly, he got up and padded out to the kitchen, where he saw John at the stove- and more importantly, a cup of coffee with no cream, two sugars.

"Morning," he mumbled into his coffee, taking a deep sip.

"Good morning," John replied, sliding some bacon onto a plate and handing it to Sherlock. After sitting down to eat, Sherlock noticed several things different about his friend.

-Circles under his eyes were lighter- John slept better and more deeply.  
-Posture straighter- Weight of most of the depression was gone.  
-Whistling- In a good mood, obviously.

Sherlock smiled to himself, biting into his bacon as John came to sit next to him.

"So," John began. "Why on Earth would you ever have faked your death?"

Sherlock groaned and slammed his fist onto the table. "For God's sake, John, isn't it obvious? Moriarty had riflemen that were going to kill Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and you! The only way to stop them was to die. And if for some amazing reason you realize that Moriarty probably had a way to call them off, don't forget that he died too. I obviously tried, but him and the shooters were the only people that knew it. Before I could get it from him, he shot himself. The only way to save you three was to die. So, I did." John nodded at the explanation, and Sherlock could tell that his subtext of his care for them had gotten through. They sat just eating snd sipping their coffees for a moment before John asked another question that Sherlock had anticipated.

"Why'd you tell me you were a fraud then?" he asked, seemingly scared of the answer, as if Sherlock actually _was._

"Watson, your lack of faith is discouraging! The line was bugged, and both of us would have been shot otherwise." Sherlock rolled his eyes, and at John's scathing look, apologized.

* * *

John noticed that Sherlock finished his breakfast in a rushed manner. He left the room, emerging from his own in the usual attire- a collared dress shirt, pants, and fine leather shoes. He donned his trench coat and clapped his hands together, rubbing them excitedly. John's raised eyebrows demanded explanation, and he kind of got one.

"Ready to catch the most dangerous criminal in the world, John?" he asked, opening the door.

John was thankful he got dressed before breakfast and had the day off, otherwise Sherlock would have been loose upon the city.

"He died, though! You said yourself!" came his reply, shocked. From down the stairs, amongst a gasp of shock from Mrs. Hudson, there came a loud, slightly maniacal laugh. Sherlock called back, "Of course not! Moriarty's not dead till _I've_ put the bullet through his temple!" And as John ran down the stairs, the door to 221B Baker Street slammed shut.

* * *

**There it is! Chapter 2. Review, please please?**


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